


Ian Westbury

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, S-E-X, Slash, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-22
Updated: 2007-05-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Trip's adventure in decorating has serious repercussions. Well, maybe not "serious" per se. More like porny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Warnings: Slash, Swears, S-e-x  
  
Notes: Written in honour of Masturbation Month. And I can't believe I'm doing this.  


* * *

Not even bothering to get undressed, Trip fell into bed, filthy and exhausted. He'd spent the day trying to repair the damage their latest encounter with a new species had done to the ship. He closed his eyes, stretched his neck and sighed against the day. He was tired. He was achy. His bed had been calling to him for hours, but he'd likely still be up under that damn console if his second in command hadn't ordered him out of there. She was right, too - he was tired and filthy enough that one of his tools had actually slipped from his hand as he'd worked, whether from exhaustion or the grease on his hands, he didn't know. He did know he was well past the grubby stage, but the only concession to decorum he'd made since entering his room was to wash his hands before he'd pissed. Well, he'd also stepped out of his boots. His mama would be so proud. 

He rolled onto his side, pulling the covers over himself as he did. Since he'd probably already gotten grease on his sheets, might as well get comfortable. 

A few moments later, he rolled onto his other side. 

Then he pulled the covers up over his head. 

"Damn it", he muttered. Typical. Here he was, completely wiped, but his mind was still spinning from the events of the day, and he couldn't sleep. Maybe if he...

Tossing aside the covers, he slid out of bed and up. Taking several purposeful steps, he pulled out his nightlight decisively. On the way back to his bed in the now-dark cabin, he bumped his shin against the bedframe and swore loudly. "Fine," he spat, almost growling in his frustration. Now he was up. Exhausted, practically woozy from it, but up. 

He shrugged out of his uniform, letting it drop to the floor where he stood, then strode into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him. Turning the light on low, he triggered the shower, figuring he needed it anyway and it might help him relax. Pulling off his skivvies, he tossed them in the corner of the room just as he stepped under the water.

He scrubbed away the worst of the day quickly and purposefully, the dirt and grease swirling dark around his feet before it went down the drain. He washed his hair and then, finally clean, simply stood under the warm water, letting it flow down his back as he tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. He flicked open his baby oil and dribbled some into his palm, reaching to the opposite shoulder and rubbing up into his neck, then back down again. God that felt good. Too bad he didn't have someone else here who could really work him over. 

Speaking of which, he thought, letting his hand trail lower, lighter now, his touch ghosting over his body. He smiled a bit when he felt himself stir, sighing into the sensation. The water was warm and the air in the small space was heavy with humidity as steam rose around him, fogging the shower enclosure and making the room feel small and secret. He leaned his clean hand against the shower wall and caressed his dick with the other. Down and over his balls, up the shaft and over the head, and down again, he kept the movement slow and smooth, the pressure firm. Then it was almost too much and he eased up, his breath already coming faster. This'd be quick. He was ready. 

He closed his eyes and dropped into fantasy, the one he'd been using over the past week, ever since he'd put up the posters in Malcolm's quarters and ended up... anyway, positive memories, all. Since then, he'd been jerking off to this fantasy, each time a bit more intense, a bit more detailed. Not that he actually wanted it to happen in real life. His hand stilled and he stood there, water flowing down around him. No, he wasn't... Not quite... Anyway... His eyes opened and he shook his head, staring at his fingers as they rested, splayed on the wall in front of him, water droplets coating each. It didn't matter. It was just a fantasy. It didn't actually, or necessarily, mean anything in real life. Did it? 

Ah, fuck. He was overanalyzing things again. Taking all the fun out of it. "Shut up," he said aloud, and he closed his eyes again, moving the hand on his cock as he did so. 

The fantasy always started the same way. 

Malcolm came into his room in full uniform, expression impassive - what Trip thought of as his "Lieutenant Reed" face. Without a word, he walked right up to Trip, spinning him around so his back was to Malcolm and he was facing the desk, and pushed him against it. Trip barely kept himself upright with quick hands to its surface. Before he could react further, Malcolm pressed right up against his back, his hardness up against his ass, and he could feel the man against the fabric of his uniform, the firmness, the power. He felt himself push back, the cloth the only barrier between them. Ready. Willing. More than able. 

"Yes, sir," Trip heard himself murmur, his voice echoing softly off the shower walls, hand stroking his dick. 

Malcolm stepped back slightly, and despite the space between them Trip could still feel the heat off the man. Malcolm reached around Trip's body and unzipped his uniform, yanking it down over his shoulders and past his hips in a series of quick jerks. Then Malcolm tugged Trip's skivvies to just below his hips, exposing him. Malcolm left Trip's t-shirt on. 

Trip's breath came quicker now, his hand stroking himself in both fantasy and reality as his excitement built. He heard a zipper being undone behind him, then pressure as Malcolm stepped to him, skin on skin, hardness against his opening, and he gasped as Malcolm entered him slightly, just a bit, without lube. There was the flick of a cap, and he felt it as Malcolm touched himself, coating his own dick, right down to the point where its tip had entered him. Malcolm then pulled back and Trip felt a touch ghost over his opening, and a finger slip just just just inside. He trembled, tensing around it. There was pressure again as the cock came back, Malcolm's hand on Trip's naked hip, and Malcolm pulled him back slightly and entered him, maybe an inch, half inch, but Trip gasped, tension increasing, experiencing for first time what it felt like to be fucked. To be opened. And it hurt, it did, but God help him, he liked it, he... Malcolm slid out and entered again, this time deeper, and Trip groaned, hand stilling on his own cock, anxious. Malcolm stroked Trip's hip with his fingers, although he retained a firm hold. There was a whispered "Shh...", and Trip relaxed. Malcolm slid in further, then back slightly, then in further, then back slightly, and Trip felt himself stretch, and it burned, but God, it was good at the same time, the pain pushing him further, his own hand on his cock making his breath quicken, making him shake, and he pushed back before he even realised he was doing so and Malcolm was in him all the way and he moaned, because God, please, and... His fingers went rigid on the desk, on the shower wall, knuckles white. Neither man moved. He could feel Malcolm in him, stretching him full, and it burned, and he could feel the fabric of Malcolm's uniform against his ass, because all Malcolm had done was take out his dick, and Trip found that very, very hot, to have been taken that way, him mostly exposed, uniform discarded in a pool at his feet, shirt jerked up to his chest, while Malcolm remained clothed. Malcolm in power, fucking him. Him opening to that, body and soul, and accepting it. 

Malcolm whispered, "Trip," and Trip tightened around him, then breathed out slowly, relaxing into it, letting it happen, letting it come. Because it would come, oh yes. Heart pounding now, body alert, breath rapid, he could feel other man's heartbeat against his back, through his shirt, and the feel of the fabric against the skin of his ass, stiff, slightly scratchy. The feel of the man's hair there, too, stiffer than that of a woman, sharper hipbones, flatter belly. Malcolm's hand came around him, the slick one, the other hand still on his hip, and Malcolm covered Trip's hand with his own, both of them holding Trip's cock now. Fingers entwining with his, Malcolm's hand was still slick with oil, coating Trip's fingers, coating his dick. Malcolm started stroking him, and Trip let him take the lead. After the first stroke, Malcolm started pumping from behind, gently, firmly, filling him, all the way, inside, behind, and stroking, and "Fuck," Trip gasped, squeezing Malcolm's hand with his own, and he pushed back, and Malcolm moved faster now, a steady rhythm, hand and dick. Trip slid forward slightly, the desk biting into his thighs, Malcolm following him forward as well, pressing into him, taking him, the feeling building, pressure in his balls, his dick rigid beneath their grip, and Trip felt himself fall and he shouted out Malcolm's name, not needing to bite it back this time, groaning at the second pulse, practically whimpering at the third. 

Trip stood in his shower, spent and gasping. Eyes closed, he let the water pour down over his head and shoulders as he kept his hand on his cock. God, that just didn't fail. Again. Every damn time. It was so damn hot. 

His mama had always told him that he had a good imagination. Bet she hadn't thought he'd do this with it. He shook his head, exhausted now, sure that he could fall asleep in a heartbeat. He chuckled - his train of thought was certainly proving that - the very fact that he'd go from imagining Malcolm fucking him, to thinking of his mother. He opened his eyes slowly, watching the water rinse away the evidence. 

He heard a door close and his head jerked up. In a heartbeat he was out of the shower, towel wrapped hastily around his waist, and standing in his dim quarters dripping onto the floor, footprints wet on the carpet. There was no one there. 

He flicked on the lights and, blinking against the sudden brightness, saw a poster curled on his bed. Cautiously, he walked over and, drying his hands quickly on his hips, opened it. It was the Fierce Blue Ascot poster, that one he liked. He looked closer. It was literally the one he liked: the one he'd kept half-hidden under his bed; he recognised the slight crease he'd accidentally put in the upper right corner. "Jesus," he said aloud, heart pounding madly. How much did Malcolm know? Just that he was the one who put up the posters, or did Malcolm know he'd been there that night, when... The muscles in his jaw clenched. Worse, Malcolm had been here how long? Trip hoped that the shower had covered most of his noises, but you never knew, and he thought he'd shouted Malcolm's name. Trip closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd never thought Malcolm would sneak in here - but then again, he'd done the same to him, yes? 

With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. 

Then realised there was a note scrawled on the poster:

"To Trip,

Thanks for last night. 

With love, 

Ian Westbury"

Trip burst out laughing.


End file.
